


if you want we could be

by WhyWouldIEver



Series: Flying Blind [1]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: (not John or Arthur), Age Difference, Bisexual Arthur Morgan, Bisexual John Marston, Drunk Sex, F/M, M/M, No Underage Sex, Pre-Canon, Prostitution, Self-Denial, dumb boys bein' dumb, these two are the only acceptable usage of the phrase "boys will be boys"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:08:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23873701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhyWouldIEver/pseuds/WhyWouldIEver
Summary: “I beg your pardon, ma’am,” Arthur slurs, hand slapping flat on the worn wood of the table. John and the woman break apart, startled by the force of it as the empty bottles of beer strewn across the surface rattle alarmingly. One tips over and rolls off to crash onto the floor. “It ‘ppears you’ve got a wolf maulin’ your face.”--People don't usually watch their fellow gang members make out with women a little too intently, they turn away and ignore it. Unless you're Arthur Morgan and think the best thing to do is shoulder your way right in the middle of it all with mockery andadvice.
Relationships: John Marston/Arthur Morgan, John Marston/Arthur Morgan/Original Female Character(s), John Marston/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Flying Blind [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1762330
Comments: 16
Kudos: 101





	if you want we could be

**Author's Note:**

> This verse takes place in 1893-1895ish. This specific story is set in 1893.
> 
> I asked myself before writing this, "How many random lines from the game can you fit in one story?" And the answer is: quite a few, actually.

Arthur’s slouched against the bar of the local saloon, his fourth beer of the night in hand as the gang celebrates a recent moderately successful robbery that put a nice chunk of change in his pocket, and enough money in the gang’s share to keep them well-fed and well-kept for at least the next couple months if they're smart about it. 

He turns around on his barstool and lazily gazes around the crowded room, sees Dutch and Hosea with their heads bent together deep in discussion over something or another. He snorts with a shake of his head as his eyes blearily sweep over Bill losing yet another hand of poker. He lifts his bottle to his lips to drink the last of his remaining beer when he happens to glance at John across the crowded saloon. Arthur’s head tilts to the side, brim of his hat obscuring the view of one eye as he squints with the other like what he’s seeing is 300 feet off rather than barely 10 feet across the floor. 

John’s got a woman in his lap, which ain’t an issue. His hands are threaded in her hair, pulling loose at the sides from where it was held at the top of her head, both of them tilted together in the messiest kiss Arthur has ever had the misfortune of seein’ with his own two eyes. John’s own tangled mess of hair is sticking to the sweat against his neck in the hot, stuffy air of the room and the woman has her hand in a tight grip high on his shoulder like she might lose her balance if she doesn’t hold on through the whirlwind that is John’s kisses. 

Before he even realizes what he’s doing, Arthur ambles in their direction, stumbling a bit as his shoulders knock into a few patrons along the way. He throws a mumbled apology vaguely in their direction as he continues on until he finds himself towering over John and the lady in his lap, the scant distance of the tabletop the only thing between them as he stares for a few moments longer, perplexed. He watches as John’s mouth fuses to hers at another angle, way more tongue visible than seems necessary to Arthur in any type of half-way decent kiss. He clears his throat loudly.

“I beg your pardon, ma’am,” Arthur slurs, hand slapping flat on the worn wood of the table. John and the woman break apart, startled by the force of it as the empty bottles of beer strewn across the surface rattle alarmingly. One tips over and rolls off to crash onto the floor. “It ‘ppears you’ve got a wolf maulin’ your face.” 

John’s brows angle down into a scowl. “Fuck off,” he says and turns back to the lady in his lap. He leans in to kiss her some more, tongue delving deep into her mouth.

Arthur pulls out the empty chair pushed up against the table and slumps down into it in a lazy sprawl. “Now, I’m serious, Marston,” he says as he picks up an empty bottle and gives it a shake to see if even half a swig remains. He drops it back onto the table top when it comes up empty. “How’s a lady supposed to breathe with you tryin’a half climb inside her with your tongue?”

John pulls back and glares at Arthur across the table. “I ain’t heard her complainin’,” he says, voice tight in his throat.

Arthur laughs and picks up another bottle, tilts it up to his lips in the hopes a few drops will quench his parched tongue. He shakes it in disgust when it comes up dry. “Well, she ain't exactly gonna be honest about it when she’s angling for a few of your spare quarters, now is she?” He drops the empty bottle carelessly and picks up another to test it all the same.

As he tilts his head back he sees the look on her face, fire burning in her eyes and lips pursed like she's staring at something distasteful. He pauses with the bottle half way to his lips, “No offense intended, m’lady.” He knocks the bottle back, rim to his lips.

He watches, confused, as the lady clambers off of John’s lap with a huff. “I don’t need his spare quarters,” she says as she walks off, ignoring John’s horny and tipsy pleas to the contrary. She stops across the room and glides easily into the next set of eager arms that open wide to accommodate her.

“Well, why’d she run off for?” Arthur grunts as he slams the empty bottle down to the table. His back straightens ramrod straight as John’s gaze flicks back toward him, outraged.

“You goddamn asshole, Morgan,” John says. He vaults up from his chair so fast Arthur’s head spins a little, not that he’d ever admit to such a thing. He storms over to the saloon’s double doors.

Arthur watches him as he goes, swears he’s moving slow now like he’s walkin’ through molasses. “I was tryin’a help you, Marston, you dumb idiot!” He snorts as John flips him off over his shoulder and slams the doors open to disappear into the darkness beyond.

“God damn animal,” Arthur grunts and turns back toward the table. He picks up and shakes another bottle, a triumphant sound emerging too loud when he hears the wet slosh inside.

  


* * *

  


A few weeks later, and it’s a new town, same old saloon. They’re always the same. The gang are again lettin’ loose for the evening, whiskey and beer running free and a lady perched pretty in the lap of any willing man.

Arthur sits down at the table across from John where he’s giving it a good go at sucking the soul from another victim whose only crime was making the mistake of letting John pay for the supposed pleasure. He watches, staring unabashed for a while. With a sip on his beer he says, “I hope you fuck better than you kiss, Marston. For the sake of all the women you’ve been with the last couple’a years.”

The woman in John’s lap pulls free from John’s lips with an audible smooching sound and a throaty laugh. When she looks down at John and sees the look on his face, she pets him along the cheek with a condescending laugh, “Aww, hun. I’m sorry.” 

John pointedly tries to ignore Arthur across the table, but the lady’s intrigued enough to inquire. “Who’s your friend?” she asks as she plays with John’s hair.

“He’s nobody. Just an asshole I have the displeasure of knowin’,” he says, and angles his head up to try and kiss her again.

Arthur laughs and cuts him off, “Arthur.” He leans across the table for her hand, smirks momentarily at John, and kisses the top of her knuckles all polite like. “And you are?”

“Who gives a shit?” John says, interrupting and moving to turn her away from Arthur and back to paying attention to him.

“Now that ain’t nice,” she says. She laughs again and kisses John a bit more, then pulls away to talk to Arthur. “I’m anybody you want me to be, hun.” She winks. “Helpless damsel in need of savin’?” Her features turn scared as she places a palm gently to her chest. “Clueless, but intrigued and in need of a man’s guidance?” She runs her fingers over John’s lips, her eyes shining hungrily, then flick back to Arthur’s clear as normal. “Or maybe you want a sweet Southern Belle?” she says in a put-upon accent. At Arthur’s obvious discomfort with the notion, she smirks, “I’ll be your Belle, honey.” She turns back to John and kisses him again, her fingers pulling slightly on his hair as he tries to add back in too much tongue.

Arthur stares for a good long while. John’s face tilts up just so for the angle he wants in the kiss, his tongue sweeping into her mouth obscenely, the lady laughing into his lips and withdrawing in a tease before diving back in like she’s eager for more. Arthur wrinkles his nose. “Do you like a man excavatin’ your tonsils, ma’am?”

John yanks back, angry, “The hell’s your problem, Morgan?”

Arthur and Belle ignore John and she answers with another laugh, “Sure, if the price is right.” She turns playful, “Why? You think you can do better?” She stands up from John’s lap and sits herself right down on Arthur. 

John vaults to his feet, pissy, and turns to storm out yet again, but is brought to a halt by Arthur grabbing his wrist. “Sit down. Watch and learn, Marston.” And with another little laugh from Belle’s lips, he leans in and kisses her. He puts on a good show, making sure she actually enjoys it. Just the right amount of tongue, teasing sweeps of his lips against hers. He lets her nibble on his bottom lip as she likes, then pulls back a hair's breadth away, flicks his eyes over toward John to make sure he's paying attention. His eyes slip shut as John's pierce into him, and Arthur kisses Belle again, coaxes her into letting slip a few helpless little noises. All the while, he clenches his hand around John’s wrist, tight enough he couldn’t hope to shake loose, his pulse beating against Arthur’s fingertips.

Finally, after ages, Belle pulls back from Arthur. Her cheeks are tinged pink, a heated delight thrumming through her, “Now you, I’d gladly kiss again for free.” She turns to John with a knowingly teasing smirk, laughs as he finally yanks his wrist free from Arthur’s hold.

She stands up from Arthur’s lap, walks back to John and pushes him against the chair as she climbs on top of him. She leans in and nuzzles into his jaw while he sulks, irritated, then kisses his neck and smiles triumphantly when he shivers at the sensation. She turns to keep Arthur engaged in the conversation, “Now how ‘bout I buy you fellers some drinks?”

They drink their way through a couple beers, Belle perched in John’s lap until he’s eased the strung-tight tension in his shoulders. She kisses his cheek and murmurs, “Now kiss me real slow like, _Marston_ ,” she says, echoing Arthur. She smiles, encouraging, as he kisses her. He visibly tries to put into practice a bit of what he observed from Arthur, only getting sidetracked a couple times, and she plays up her enjoyment with breathless little sounds in encouragement.

All in all, it’s a pretty decent night. Belle grabs them a couple more drinks, both of them veering into overly friendly drunk territory. She kisses John some more and observes with a sly eye as Arthur watches, a bit drunk but a little too focused on it all, all things considered.

She watches as they lean on each other more than really seems necessary in her estimation as they’re headed toward their horses, counting the money she’d taken from such amenable fellers. Finders, keepers, that’s Belle’s motto.

  


* * *

  


A couple nights later, a few notorious members of the van der Linde gang find themselves back drinking their way through the same saloon's supply, rowdy from the boredom that grows when they stay static too long. Belle slinks downstairs later in the evening hours and Arthur snorts as the eyes of quite a few of the saloon’s patrons watch her, hungry and heated, amused in the knowledge that she'd happily and easily take every penny they've got. He tips his hat as soon as she makes eye contact, a playful, knowing smile alighting on her lips. 

She walks a direct line to Arthur and John’s table, her eyes flicking down to the litter of empty shot glasses and bottles. “Howdy, fellers,” she says.

John wrenches back from where he’d been slumped half over the table as he hears her speak, spits, “Brave of you to show your face again, thief.”

She rolls her eyes. “That’s a bit rich coming from a bunch of outlaws, no?” She pulls out the free chair at the table. “Parley?” she asks with a wink in Arthur’s direction.

She sits and Arthur holds down the conversation with her while John sulks and occasionally throws out a mild insult that both Arthur and Belle leave hanging in the air. She ignores his mood and teases him, aiming little comments in Arthur’s direction every now and then as if trying to gauge his reaction to them. She’s clever, Belle. A great thief too, if the other night is anything to go by. Arthur finds he enjoys her snappy tongue and quick wit, the conversation veering in a more playful nature as the drinks flow and the evening passes. 

John throws another derisive remark in her direction and Belle quips, “Maybe Arthur can teach you another thing or two about how to properly treat a lady, Marston.” 

“You ain’t a lady,” John snarks, refusing to meet her eyes.

“Now that’s just a horrid thing to say!” She says, feigning as if scandalized, then leans in to whisper in his ear loud enough that Arthur can hear across the table. “Now how’s about you be a nice feller and make it up to me upstairs?” She runs a finger along the top of John’s hand. “Your sweet friend Arthur can come, too.” 

She doesn’t wait for an answer, just yanks John out of his chair by the hand, and pulls him along behind her as she heads to the staircase. She turns a few paces away, crooking a finger at Arthur with a sly look. He follow the two of them, stairs creaking loudly underfoot with each step he takes, then he hesitates outside the open doorway of her room. Belle turns toward him, her mouth opening to speak when John interrupts anything she may have said.

“Get the fuck in here, Morgan. If you think you’ve got something to show me, then fucking show me,” John mutters, and Belle smiles, delight scrawled across her pretty features. She beckons Arthur the rest of the way inside, turns and shuts the door when his feet have crossed the threshold of the room.

She leans her back against the closed door, staring at the two hopeless cases in front of her. Too much drink on their tongues, money for the picking in their pockets given the right opportunity if she wants to take it. Arthur stands still where he is, watches as she approaches John where he’s standing in the center of the room, leans up into his space and kisses him like he’s a wild horse in need of calming, her hand running a soothing sweep down his front. She pushes and pulls in just the right ways to put John at ease, keep him hooked on what she’s doing, all while she cleverly maneuvers them exactly where she wants to be in the room. She lets John take lead on the kiss, pleased noises falling from her lips as he pushes her up against the dresser along the wall. Her eyes open and she peers at Arthur over John’s shoulder, gaze beckoning. She pulls away from John’s lips, and murmurs, “You gonna tell him what he needs to do?” She grins as John makes a noise he tries to quell. 

Arthur stares, feet stuck to the floor as if buried in stone, watches as she pulls John down to lean his face into the side of her neck. She runs her fingers down his back in a tantalizing drift, then holds her palm out for Arthur, withdrawing it as he finally starts to move. He takes a step forward, then another, crowds up into John’s personal space. He lifts his own hand and settles it high in the center of John’s back, shushing him when he jumps, and brushes his palm up to rest in the crook between neck and shoulder. He takes a deep breath, releases it, and leans in close behind John. “Kiss her,” he says, voice a quiet rumble.

He feels like both his eyes and brain are swimming as John’s back shifts on a shuddering breath, moves his thumb back and forth on John’s skin in a calming gesture. He stands there, his front inches from the heat radiating off John’s back through his shirt, as John leans down and kisses her. After a while, careful not to break the spell, he whispers to John, “Lift her onto the dresser,” and runs a soothing hand along his back as he complies. He acts as guide for a while longer, breathing instructions into John’s ear, _tease her_ , _play with her hair_ , _run the tips of your fingers along her skin_. 

John’s hips start rocking minutely against Belle, her legs parted to make room for him between. Arthur hesitates, takes a step backwards, letting John take the reins. 

“Now what?” John asks, his head tilted with his ear toward Arthur, and Arthur groans quietly.

He returns to his place along John’s back, his arms coming up around him as he trips his fingers down the row of buttons on Belle’s dress. “What do you think?” he asks her. She nods, and he starts plucking buttons open from the top down, nudges John to undo the last remaining few.

“Kiss her,” Arthur says again, and makes a pleased noise as John leans in and brushes his lips against her newly exposed skin. 

Belle takes over as John’s lips move against her, removing her underthings, and spreads her legs right there along the dresser.

Arthur speaks, voice barely above a gravelly whisper, “Have you ever tasted a woman?”

John scoffs, his head turned half-way as he looks at Arthur with an incredulous expression. “I’ve gone down on a woman before.”

Spell broken, Arthur can’t help himself, he falls right into their familiar patterns as he snarks back, “Yeah, but did she come?”

Belle laughs where she’s sprawled on the dresser as John snaps around, then moans helplessly when he sets his mouth right to her, his tongue making wet noises Arthur can hear.

“Boy,” she laughs again, breathlessly. “You two sure are competitive.” She moans as John sucks on her, brings his fingers up to tease her. She threads her fingers in his hair to direct him exactly where she wants him most, sounds falling from her lips as John works to prove himself.

Arthur’s skin goes hot as she collapses into an orgasm, her fingers clenching tight in John’s hair. He rolls his eyes as John turns toward him after, look of smug triumph scribbled across his features screaming out, _“See, I can make a woman come!”_

Arthur takes a breath, but before another little argument can start, Belle speaks into the room. “Are one of you gonna fuck me now, or what?”

Arthur shuts his mouth, waves his hand, gesturing for John to have at it if he wants, which he very clearly does as he reaches down to discard his gun belt. Belle slips her fingers into the buttons of John’s pants as Arthur shuffles over to stand with his shoulder leaned against the wall next to the dresser rather than standing right behind them. His cheeks burn hot as Belle pulls John’s cock free, the sight of her fingers wrapped around him sending Arthur’s eyes skittering away, pulse thudding loud in his ears. He glances up to see John already looking back at him, a curious expression on his face that Arthur couldn’t hope to decipher even if he was sober. 

Belle moans loud and a little fake, the sound breaking through Arthur’s thoughts, and she starts to guide John’s cock straight to her. 

“You ain’t got a condom?” Arthur asks, halting their progress.

Belle laughs, an incredulous expression turned toward him. “No?” she says, as if there’s not really a question about it. “Men aren’t usually willing to wear ‘em.” She puts on a whiny voice, “‘They don’t feel good!’” She rolls her eyes. “Boohoo, really. But they’re payin’, so I just stopped askin’.” She pulls John closer with her legs wrapped around him, “Just pull out before you finish.” 

John moans, and Arthur swears he can hear gusts of howling wind in his ears as he watches the way John’s cock, hard and an aching shade of red that makes Arthur’s own cock pulse in sympathy, sink deep inside of Belle in one slow pushing glide. He starts thrusting his hips near immediately, gone deep all selfish in his own pleasure. The wet sounds of sex fill the room, John panting and Belle moaning in exaggeration. 

John buries his face in her shoulder mindlessly, hips thrusting fast, the sound of his skin slapping into the embrace of her spread legs. “Christ, you idiot,” Arthur mumbles. He crowds up behind John’s back again thoughtlessly, and slows his hips down with his hands clasped either side. “Don’t you want her to have a good time, too?” He throws caution to the wind still gusting soundlessly in his ears and guides John into a different rhythm, pulling back on his hips so slowly John pants out a frustrated sound he’d probably be embarrassed about if Arthur were to hear it at any other time, then he pushes him deep back inside at the same torturous pace. He changes up the rhythm as soon as John and Belle both get too into it, then again and again, never letting John get too close. He moves his hands in a sweeping path up the length of John’s back to settle on his shoulders, holding him back when he starts moving too quickly. Leaning forward, Arthur mutters into John’s ear, “Kiss her,” and makes a pleased sound in his throat as soon as John acquiesces. “Make her come again before you finish.” John groans, kiss forgotten, voice tight and so obviously lost. His hips pick up speed as he starts fucking her in deep, aching thrusts, so desperately close to coming. Arthur laughs with a little shake of his head as he reaches his hand around and between their bodies, his fingers going right for her, rubbing her in tight circles until she comes. 

John makes a helpless little noise in his throat that has Arthur yanking him back by the hip. He wraps his free arm around John’s torso as he takes John’s cock in hand, the calloused skin of his palm moving quick along the pulsing hot length of it, thick bursts of come landing on the skin of Belle’s abdomen, a desperate, “ _Fuck_ , Arthur,” whispered into the quiet of the room. Arthur’s cheeks burn, his cock throbbing, desperately hard in his pants as John thrusts weakly in his fist. John's body leans back against his, his hand clenching tight around Arthur's thigh until he can’t take anymore and bats Arthur’s hand away from his sensitive cock in a vague, exhausted way.

Belle laughs where she’s sprawled on the dresser, wipes herself off and starts buttoning her dress, pulling herself together. She pushes her luck, asks, “You two gonna give us a show and kiss now?” 

Arthur steps back and tries to discreetly wipe the come splashed across his fingers on the inside lining of the coat he never even bothered to take off. He watches helplessly, discomfort growing, as she shakes her head with a little smirk she tries to keep to herself. John quickly buttons up his pants, bends down to retrieve his gun belt from the floor. He turns toward Arthur afterwards as if needing direction on what to do next. Arthur avoids his gaze, stares hard at the floor as John sighs, reaches into his pocket, and turns toward Belle as he thrusts a messy pile of money into her hand.

She shakes her head, and walks out the door. “Close the door behind you, yeah?” she says, and turns at the top of the stares. “Good luck to y’all.” She laughs as she heads down the steps.

  


* * *

  


They’d left the room above the saloon pretty quickly after Belle had made her grand exit, John hurrying as he put himself back together again. He was still a bit winded from his orgasm, cock half hard as he’d shoved himself back into his pants. Arthur had mumbled something about getting their horses ready and about as good as fled from the room. 

As soon as John stepped outside he knew getting Arthur to utter a word about any of it would be a challenge. The drinks had mostly worn off, and Arthur was clearly second-guessing the whole thing, if his hunched shoulders and refusal to meet John’s eyes were telling of anything. But John had won challenges before, even made a little money off hunting-by-mail challenges he’d seen posted to boards in towns all over. He was good at challenges. He knew he could win this one too, with some determination. 

But now as they ride back to camp in the dead of night, it’s one of the most uncomfortable situations John has ever had the misfortune to be in. Even more uncomfortable than avoiding the advances of Mrs. Peters, the wife of an old banker they’d robbed a couple years back, and she’d been real handsy. Now there’s nothing but the sound of horse’s hooves on dirt, everything too quiet when normally they’d be mumbling drunken and off-key through a song they only knew the chorus to, or throwing teasing, mocking insults at each other. John itches to break the suffocating silence, but bites his lip. The only thought in his brain is an awkward and open-ended, “So…” that he knows Arthur would ignore anyway. 

They move slowly along the trails, Arthur and John letting the horses set their own pace, only taking control of the reins to avoid rocks or steer them onto another road. He watches Arthur’s back as he rides a few paces in front, the hard lines as if he’s sitting tense, waiting in dreaded anticipation for the sound of a gunshot, that of John ending their strange stand-off.

They break through the trees into camp and as soon as the fires are visible, Arthur sets off faster and rides up to hitch his horse to a post. He dismounts and heads straight for his tent, writing along every line of his body reading loud and clear, “Don't bother me.”

John dismounts and hitches his own horse a few moments later and heads over to the fire where Pearson and Bill sit smoking in silence as they try and burn off the last of the liquor from their night on the town. He sits down on a log and holds his hands out to the warmth of the flames.

“The hell did you do now?” Bill asks as blunt as ever.

John rolls his eyes with an unamused snort, climbs back to his feet, and makes his way to his own tent instead.

“What?” Bill asks his back as he walks away.

  


* * *

  


John emerges from his tent into the cool air the next morning. He stomps over to the fire and pours himself a cup of coffee and stands there back hunched, bleary eyed, and half asleep as he blows gently on his cup to cool it so he can drink it without burning his tongue.

After waiting what he hopes is long enough, he takes a long, pleasant gulp, eyes shutting and he sighs deep in his lungs as the coffee warms him from the inside out. His eyes slowly reopen and the first thing he sees is Arthur rise from his cot and stretch, arms flung wide and a goofy yawn spread across his face. He scratches at his beard, stands, and heads over in that stride he uses to intimidate. 

John stands in silence, coffee clenched tight in his hand, watches as Arthur pulls his cup from his satchel and bends down to fill it to the top. He rises, and without even glancing at anyone else circled around the fire, he heads back to his tent, gathers a few things, and walks over to his horse. He sets his cup in a precarious position on the saddle as he makes preparations, brushes and feeds his horse, then drinks his coffee down quickly. He dumps the remains, climbs up into the saddle, and disappears into the trees as they trot along the trail out of camp.

 _Coward_ , John thinks as he watches Arthur ride away.

“Seriously, Marston, the hell did you do this time?” Bill grunts, grumpy in the morning.

John dumps the remainder of his coffee in the fire and pointedly turns away. He walks over to the wood and starts chopping, determined to keep his mind occupied away from idiot outlaws.

  


* * *

  


It’s over a week before Arthur rides back to camp late one afternoon. Nine whole entire days with John growing angrier, antsier, more worried, yet increasingly determined to knock some goddamn sense into Arthur’s stupid head. He goes off on a couple errands for Dutch since his _workhorse_ has ridden off, looks into a possible homestead that might be worth robbing. It’s a bust, which Dutch takes about as well as can be expected. But John goes out hunting and brings back a few rabbits and squirrels to add to the pot for a few days, so the mood around camp is pretty jovial, even with the boredom that foments in between thieving and heists.

The goodwill aimed John’s way is all but forgotten on Arthur’s return though, of course, as he rides in with a buck on the back of his horse and a bunch of meat for Pearson and high quality pelts that Grimshaw actually cracks a smile for. 

“Good job, Arthur,” she says, and John rolls his eyes, rifle clenched tight in his hands, as he heads out for his shift on watch.

  


* * *

  


He’s in a pissy mood as he walks back to camp a few hours later, Bill relieving him with a shove to the shoulder only making him more irritated than he already is.

He spots movement to his right through the trees and turns, gun raised, heart rate picking up as he tries to identify the figure in the dark.

“It’s Arthur, dumbass.” The footsteps continue to walk away from John’s direction.

“Christ,” John grunts, and turns and stomps the rest of the way to camp.

He grabs a bottle of beer as soon as he returns his gun, and takes a seat in front of the fire, stretching his legs out in front of himself on the ground. He pops the cap and takes a few deep swallows, the cool liquid a relief, and ignores the conversation going on around him. He's lost in thought as he stares for ages into the fire, oranges, yellows and reds dancing in the nighttime breeze still not enough to dampen the frustration stirring in his gut. 

“John."

John swings his eyes up at the sound of his name, his eyes landing on Hosea who is staring back at him with a look of concern.

“Everything alright?” 

John sighs and climbs to his feet, takes another few gulps of his beer and tosses it into the fire, glass shattering. “I’m fine,” he mutters. “Gonna go on a walk.”

“Alright,” Hosea says, his gaze speaking volumes John doesn’t want to read.

  


* * *

  


He doesn’t _intentionally_ walk in the same direction as Arthur had gone, but he’s not all that surprised when he breaks into the clearing around the lake and spots Arthur standing waist deep in the water, the broken waves around his body reflecting the moonlight in a way that makes Arthur nearly glow.

He pauses on the edge of the trees, silently watching as Arthur walks deeper into the water and swims around for a few minutes, head barely visible above the water’s edge. John shivers, a small gust of wind whispering through his hair. He takes a step forward toward the lake, and another. He walks up to the shoreline, keeping his boots far enough back to stay dry.

“Arthur,” he says, voice raspy but clear in the night. 

Arthur startles, turning toward John. He wades, arms moving to keep himself in place, and sighs, scowling. “I’m bathing, Marston.” 

“I don’t care." He stands in place, staring over the water at Arthur.

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Of course you don’t,” he says, the eye roll evident even in his voice. He starts swimming again, clearly intent on ignoring John, arms moving him in a long lap perpendicular to John where he stands rooted like a tree on the shore.

John clenches his jaw and takes a few steps backwards. He grasps his boot and pulls one off right after the other, throwing them behind himself up nearer the treeline. His gun belt goes next, tossed carelessly aside followed by his suspenders, shirt, and pants. 

“The hell are you doing?” Arthur asks, irritated, his voice snarling over the surface of the water. “You can't swim, you idiot.”

“I don’t care,” John says again. He marches into the water with his union suit still on. He gasps at the first touch of cold water to his skin. “Jesus,” he mutters, but keeps stomping in deeper, to his knees, then waist deep. He keeps walking as Arthur stares at him in disbelief.

With an angry sigh, Arthur swims closer to him. “You goddamn moron,” he says, annoyed.

He swims up to John where he stands, water line half up his chest. He shoves John, hard, as soon as he stands on his own feet. Then again and again until John is forced backwards, the chilly water now only just brushing against his hip.

“The hell’s the matter with you?” he asks as he shoves the palms of his hands against John’s chest.

“The hell’s the matter with _you_?” John snarls back, pushing at Arthur’s shoulder. 

With a frustrated growl in his throat, Arthur rams his body into John’s, the two of them colliding and falling into a heaping splash in the water. 

John emerges, sputtering, his hair a wet tangle in front of his eyes. He swipes at his hair and grapples back up to his feet then lunges at Arthur where he’s stood back up, smirking down at John. They wrestle right there in the shallow waters of the lake, both sputtering and spitting out water, twisting and turning as the waves splash around them. Arthur gets his hand in John’s hair and yanks him down under, but John twists at the last second, gasping as it wrenches his head with his hair still clenched in Arthur’s grip. He gets enough leverage as he twists so he can scramble up on top of Arthur. He grabs Arthur by the throat and dunks him underneath, holds him there for a few seconds as Arthur writhes underneath him. He pulls Arthur back up then dunks him under again, and his head wrenches to the side as Arthur’s grip in his hair pulls.

Arthur resurfaces, gasping for breath, and he switches his grip from John’s hair into the front of his sopping wet union suit. He yanks John down until his head is forced under the water near Arthur’s shoulder then uses it as leverage to buck John off of him. 

They roll and tussle until they near the lake’s edge as exhaustion settles in their chilled bones. John flops down on his back, winded and waterlogged as Arthur shoves him down in the shallow water, the waves brushing against his ankles and around his ears. “You asshole,” he says, panting. 

Arthur smirks, victorious, then pushes himself up to his knees. He moves to take a step up onto his foot, but John grabs at his nearest arm, fingers wrapping tight around his wrist. 

“Arthur,” John says. He sits up in the water, hair a tangled, soaking wet mess around his head. 

At the look in John’s eyes, Arthur clenches his jaw and wrenches his arm free. “Don’t,” he says, voice clipped. He stands up to his feet and marches over to the pile of clothes he left on top of a rock. He steps quickly into his jeans, buttoning them as fast as his chilled fingers can move. He slings his arms through his shirt, plops his hat down onto his head, and snatches up the rest of his things, marching barefoot toward the trees.

Arthur walks faster, shoulders hunched down defensively as John snarls in frustration from the water. He scrambles up to his feet and stomps after him, grabs the back of Arthur's shirt and swings him around, slams his back into the trunk of the closest tree. “You ain’t running, you goddamn coward,” John says, voice like heated gravel.

“Get away from me,” Arthur says, and he shoves John away. He pushes off the tree with his shoulders.

John shoves him back against the bark, Arthur grunting in pain at the collision, his hat falling backwards, the brim stuck between his head and the bark of the tree. “No,” John says, and takes a step closer. He grabs Arthur’s hat and flings it over his shoulder. Arthur stares at him, jaw clenched, eyes piercing like he’s got his sights set on an enemy down the barrel of his gun. John ignores him and leans in, his mouth colliding with Arthur’s.

Arthur’s lips open in a pained grunt as John’s teeth click against his own uncomfortably, and John uses it as a gateway inside his mouth, tasting cheap whiskey and old cigarettes, which John knows he should probably think is disgusting, but just feels like comfort. He holds Arthur to the tree with a hand shoved firmly against his chest as he explores his mouth, John’s tongue brushing up against Arthur’s in sweeping, deep strokes. 

Arthur turns his head to the side, muttering, “God, you didn’t learn a damned thing, did you?”

John laughs without humor, his free hand rising to Arthur’s jaw to tilt his face back to his own. He changes tack, brushing his mouth against Arthur’s in a gentle tease, lips barely touching. He presses a kiss to the corner of his lips, then pulls Arthur’s bottom lip between his own and sucks on it until he releases it free. He keeps kissing Arthur just like that, moving slow as John tries to remember every little move he saw Arthur use before. 

Arthur sighs against John’s lips, grunts out a quiet, “Shit,” and his hands move, a slow sliding ascent up the front of John’s chest until they loop around his head and into the drying, tangled mess of his hair. John can’t help the smirk on his lips as he’s pulled back into another kiss.

“Shut the hell up,” Arthur mumbles against his lips.

They kiss for what feels like ages, one night surely tumbling straight into another and then another with the two of them pressed up against a tree in the forest. Their lips move against each other, tingling and going numb, hair and clothes drying in the cool night air. John pulls back for a breath and rubs his stubbled cheek against Arthur’s just to feel the rasp along his skin. 

“You stubborn bastard,” Arthur says, his hand moving down from John’s hair to grasp into the fabric of John’s half-dry union suit, holding tight between his shoulder blades.

John rolls his hips forward, his half-hard cock unmistakable in the soft front of his clothing.

Arthur sighs, tilting his head back against the tree. John leans in and places a few sucking kisses along his neck. “The hell are we doing?” Arthur asks the night sky.

John runs his teeth along the same path. “I don’t know,” he answers honestly. He kisses back up Arthur’s neck, slinks his fingers into Arthur’s hair to tilt him back down to face him head-on. Leaning in, he hovers his lips right to Arthur’s, a tease as his eyes flick back and forth with Arthur’s gaze. He probably looks cross-eyed but he doesn’t even care. “You run again though, I’ll chase you down and hogtie you back here.” He bites at Arthur’s bottom lip.

With a growl and an upper body roll, Arthur shoves at him, grips his fingers tight to the front of John’s suit and flips them around. John’s back slams into the tree as Arthur crowds up into his space. 

John sighs as Arthur kisses him, shuts his eyes and tries to breathe through the onslaught, victory singing through his veins. He slips his hands underneath the collar of Arthur’s opened shirt and pushes it off his shoulders to get at his warm skin. He runs his hand along Arthur’s chest, calloused fingers catching on hair, and tilts his head as Arthur changes the angle of their kiss. 

Pulling back for a few deep breaths of air, John jumps as the palm of Arthur’s hand cups his cock over his union suit. John moans, his head slipping back to thunk against the tree on the wrong side of painful.

Arthur laughs at him. “You’re so easy,” he goads. He squeezes his hand in rhythmic little motions, laughing at John again with every breathless sound he makes. But he leans in, presses his lips to John’s neck, down to his collarbones, scrapes his teeth along the length of one then traces back up his neck in a meandering path, his lips and tongue exploring everything that gets a hitched breath freed from John’s lips.

“Come on,” John gasps.

He swears he can hear the mocking smile on Arthur’s voice. “Come on, what?” 

“Come _on_ ,” John says, then grabs onto Arthur’s hips to yank him forward. Arthur’s cock collides with his own hand where it’s still wrapped casually around John, but the impact is enough to let loose a gasp from his lips.

John reaches between them and knocks Arthur’s hand out of the way, adjusts his stance so they’re lined up just right and sways his hips into Arthur’s. “Fuck,” he groans deep in his chest at the first shock of his cock aligning with Arthur’s.

Arthur moans, his hand sliding down around John’s hip, fingers grabbing a handhold for leverage as they thrust against each other.

John raises his arm to get his fingers into the back of Arthur’s hair, pulls him into another kiss as they pant against each other, hips picking up a tight rhythm. Arthur’s hips start fucking against John erratically, thrusts that he ends with a momentary tight hold up against John’s cock, the pressure sending stars sparking behind John’s closed eyes. “Ain’t doin’ it right,” John mumbles against his lips.

“What?” Arthur grunts, and thrusts in an undulating wave so his cock rides up along the side of John’s.

“Supposed to let me come first,” John grins, breathless. His fingers tighten in Arthur’s hair. “Weren’t that what you said?”

Arthur groans, and John laughs, voice tapering off high as Arthur reaches back between them and fists his hand around John’s cock still stuck in his union suit.

“C’mon then,” Arthur mumbles as he leans in to kiss John. 

John gasps, his orgasm already tingling close along his nerves, the backs of his knees sweating. 

Arthur swipes his thumb along the head of John’s cock where it's bulging into fabric, and then again with a smirk pressed to John’s lips at John’s stuttered breath, and that sends him tumbling over, another desperate sound trapped between their lips.

Arthur wrenches his hand away as he comes, his own hips resuming their half-frantic pace up along John’s as he chases his own orgasm, lips tipped open against John’s, panting. 

“Arthur,” John breathes, overwhelmed by the continued onslaught against his spent cock. He tilts his forehead down against Arthur’s shoulder, nibbles thoughtlessly at the muscle, and that’s all it takes. Arthur comes pulsing in his jeans, hips fucking against John. He moans quiet in his throat, lips pressed near John’s ear, riding the peak of pleasure.

They breathe rested up against each other for a few moments, John’s back pressed uncomfortably into the bark of the tree behind him. He lifts his head and looks up through the treetops to the stars twinkling in the night sky above.

He fidgets uncomfortably, and Arthur grunts against his shoulder where he’s rested his head. John sighs, his palm smoothing out along Arthur’s back, and then fidgets again. 

“What?” Arthur grumbles, speaking right into John’s skin. He bites at him and John squirms.

“‘S’gross,” John says as he shifts his hips around.

Arthur lifts his head and John laughs at the wary look on his face. “Drying, sticky come,” John clarifies.

Arthur jerks away. “Jesus, John,” he says in disbelief.

John laughs again, then grimaces as he pulls his union suit away from sticking to his skin.

“Well, the water’s right there,” Arthur says, a smirk forming along his lips. He yanks John forward by the open sides of the top of his union suit where John always leaves a few buttons undone.

John slaps his hands away. “No fucking way I’m getting back in that cold water.” 

“Fine, Marston,” Arthur says. “It’s your choice.” He turns and heads back to the lake, stripping off his ruined jeans to wash up later. “But you might find me in your tent after you’ve fallen asleep just to yank on your hair when your come's completely dried all stuck together.” He smirks, then turns around and marches straight into the water. 

John groans and follows. Knowing Arthur as he does, that’s a cruel promise and not a joke.

“Oh, and John?” Arthur says, paddling backwards into the darker depths of the lake. John stops just before the water’s edge, ear perched up to hear him clearly as Arthur swims away. “When we get ashore, you best march over to my hat and dust it off real nice.” He laughs as John steps forward and kicks a pointless splash of water in his direction. “You sling my hat around like that again, it won’t end well for you.” 

John rolls his eyes, then groans out a shocked, “God, fuck you,” as he stomps deeper into the cold water to wash off, adamantly ignoring Arthur’s mocking laugh.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Please let me know what you think, I’d love to hear your thoughts. 
> 
> Note: I just want to say that I intentionally didn't describe Belle (physically speaking) so it could be left up to the reader's imagination. I hope that worked okay. It's tough because she is basically just a conduit for what transpires between Arthur and John, and I struggled with my own comfort writing a woman in that capacity. I tried to make it clear that she is more than aware she's a conduit for them, and that she uses that knowledge for her own gain (monetarily and otherwise) as well. Also, the intent was that she puts on characters in her line of work. She noted that the Southern Belle persona made Arthur uncomfortable (because it reminded him of Mary), and that's why she stuck with it. No one knows her real name except for her. ;D
> 
> And obviously, John doesn't have his scars yet, I just like the idea of Arthur always comparing him to animals, and the irony of him comparing John to wolves is particularly funny to me.


End file.
